


The Mechanics of Gratitude

by prairiecrow



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Christmas, Julian Has Really Bad Taste in Clothes, M/M, Secrets, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Garak learns something about Christmas, gifts, and how Julian Bashir can redeem even the tackiest of holiday sweaters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mechanics of Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everyhopeanycost](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=everyhopeanycost).



> Takes place sometime after "The Wire".

When Garak glanced up from the PADD of dress patterns he was perusing to see Julian Bashir coming toward their usual table at the Replimat, wearing both a beaming smile and a typical sense of… well, in some alternate universe Garak supposed it could charitably be called "style"… he didn't try very hard to keep his wince to himself.

"My dear Doctor," he protested when Julian was within earshot, _"really?"_

The charming young Human didn't even have the decency to look properly abashed for the crime against fashion that was currently sagging around his slim torso. "Yes," he said firmly, _"really,"_ and deposited a stack of six small gaily wrapped rectangular packages in front of his usual place at the table before heading off toward the replicator with his shoulders squared and an attitude of… yes, Garak decided, the word "defiance" certainly fit, and fit much better than that painful excuse for a sweater to boot.

He'd permitted himself the wince, but he carefully concealed the sigh… and he was equally careful, as he swept his gaze casually across the Replimat over the rim of his mug of red leaf tea, not to let his attention linger on Julian as the Human placed his order. Honestly, that sweater — coarse-knit and lumpy, in alternating horizontal stripes of glaring red and green, with little cut-outs of golden silk bells sewn on in cheerfully gaudy vertical rows and, dear Preloc's ghost, was that supposed to be _silver tinsel?_ — wouldn't have looked out of place amidst the tools of an interrogation chamber… It really was a qualified mercy that the torso and the shoulders it obscured were indeed exceedingly charming. Garak knew that much for a fact: after all, hadn't he taken Julian's measurements for an Andorran-Style formal suit only last month, taking the greatest care not to let the slightest frisson of carnality mar his mask of genial professionalism while he'd run his sizing scanner over that caramel skin he'd longed to stroke with avid fingers? Or perhaps caress with a teasing tongue… hm, yes, he suspected that Julian was the sort to respond to such ministrations with singular fervour: panting, gasping, perhaps a helpless pleading whimper or two of the sort guaranteed to bring out the worst in a man like Elim Garak…

… or the best, depending on your point of view. _Oh yes,_ he mused as he let his gaze linger for a fraction for a second too long on the delicious buttocks visible through those clinging black pants, below the hem of that hideous knitted monstrosity: _You may not yet realize that you want to be cruelly treated in that particular manner, my dear… but I possess exceptionally sharp instincts with regards to such matters, and trust me — you most certainly do…_

_… and if I told you to sit down with a pair of sharp scissors and cut up that crime against fashion, you'd grumble — but you'd follow orders, although I might have to spank you for afterwards scowling so much while you did it…_

He knew he was smiling now, and that it wasn't a particularly pleasant smile. But since everybody else in the Replicate was engaged in their own conversations and he was able to wipe it clean off his face when Julian turned around with a mug of hot raktajino in hand, he was able to tell himself that it really didn't matter.

"I do hope you brought along a painkiller," he told Julian as the impetuous young man took his usual seat, "to counteract the headache that sweater is inducing."

Julian pulled a wry face at him. "It's _Christmas_ , Garak," he stated, as if that explained everything.

"I see." Garak cast a polite glance at the brightly wrapped pile of boxes, each one bound with wide metallic ribbons of silver and gold. "And is this 'Christmas' some Human euphemism for 'use every single clashing colour combination you can readily conceive of'?"

"Actually," Julian said pointedly, "it's an annual Terran festival. It was originally the commemoration of the birth of a prominent religious leader, but now it's primarily an occasion for giving and receiving gifts."

Garak, who knew perfectly well what Christmas was — being, after all, the spy that Julian had always suspected, and so much more that the dear innocent boy couldn't begin to appreciate — smiled blandly. "If you say so. And is this —" An elegant gesture at the offending piece of clothing. "— traditional Christmas wear?"

For the first time, Julian had the good grace to glance down at himself and quirk one eyebrow in sardonic self-deprecation. "Only if you have a great-aunt who knits you a new sweater every year especially for the occasion."

"Ah!" Garak beamed with delight and raised his cup in salute. "Family obligations! Now _that_ is something a Cardassian can appreciate!"

Julian's answering smile was radiant. "Well, I'm glad we agree on something!" Still grinning, he plucked a present out of the middle of the pile — this one wrapped in dark green embellished with graphic little trees consisting of a lime yellow outline filled with blood red — and slid it across the table toward Garak. "And I do hope you'll like this a lot better than my sweater…"

"For me?" Garak was rarely genuinely surprised. This was one of those occasions. "Really, I don't think that's —"

"— perfectly appropriate," Julian said firmly. "Christmas is a time for demonstrating how much you appreciate the people in your life." He looked at Garak through lowered lashes, and there was an almost shy quality to his smile, edged with challenge, that went to Garak's stone-cold heart and twisted into it like a hot knife through butter. "And I may not say it often enough, given how much we argue… but I consider you a valued friend."

"Oh, Doctor…" There was a lump in Garak's throat: he could hear it in the hoarse edge of his own voice, an appalling loss of control… but

_When was the last time I received a gift? From anybody?_

he recovered quickly, and pasted on a smooth smile of unctuous gratitude. "You're too kind! But truly, I haven't done anything worthy of such generosity, much less —"

"Garak!" Julian rolled his eyes, but they were nonetheless full of warmth and kindness. "Just open the bloody present, will you?"

Garak did so, and deliberately kept the fact that Julian's mere presence (painfully awful sweater notwithstanding) was the finest gift of all completely to himself.

THE END  
 


End file.
